Luka rounds up Coop, Neela -- who is fixating on Paula a little and seems really affected -- and Gallant, not seeming to notice that Malarkey is gone. He then speechifies about providing faster but better care. Then he charges into triage and orders the patients into a line. They'll be treated three at a time so that by 10, a doctor will have seen every one of them.
Bob builds his models and complains to Susan that he waited three hours and nobody came to him. Perhaps he should be thankful he's not Athena. There is classical music blaring loudly, which he says blocked him from hearing the phone. "Is that your job?" Susan smiles at the models. "Now a hobby," Bob sighs. "I made architectural models [but] you need two good eyes for that kind of work." Then Bob spins off on a boring tangent about architecture and design and the union of design and function. Susan isn't listening because she's too busy firing questions at Bob about his pills and offering to set him up with a pill dispenser and a visiting nurse. Bob's last thought about the rules of architecture is, "Always be aware of how the structure fits into the world around it," and that's supposed to be a profound statement, I think, about how people should approach other people. But I'm already a little bored of Bob's slow and steady delivery, so mostly I'm just wishing he'd wake up next to Suzanne Pleshette already so that we can write off this story arc as a dream. Susan gets paged. "Boyfriend?" Bob asks. "No, it's a patient," she sighs. "I have to go. She's dying." Susan instructs Bob not to kill himself in the next seventy-two hours. "But...Monday would be okay," Bob offers. "I'm off the hook by then," Susan says, a tinge of sarcasm in her tone. "So, this is kind of a career move for you?" he asks. Susan ignores him. Bob blows out his jowls. "Okay, it's a deal," Bob says.
Luka watches approvingly as Neela, Coop, and some extra who looks vaguely like a med student who was on the show last season -- oh, right, it's Gallant -- are buzzing through some patients in triage. I can't wait until this swift system causes misdiagnosis hell. "What are you nutmeats doing?" Romano crabs. "Clearing triage," Luka says serenely. Romano looks around him and seems impressed. The only way you can tell is that he doesn't immediately spit back something hopelessly snarky. "Excellent," he says instead, exiting for the night. We fade to black on Luka's pleased face. Slurp.